


An InFamous Soul

by soul_of_spades



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9344849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_of_spades/pseuds/soul_of_spades
Summary: "When they first met, she assured him that she wasn't afraid. His body had convulsed with electricity when he woke up in the hospital, but Maka had been strong enough to face him when no one else would." The origin story of the boy made of lightning and the girl made of ice and how they and their friends survive and clash in a broken city. InFamous AU. SoMa. Rated for future content.





	1. Chapter 1

"Any man can overcome adversity. If you truly want to test a man's character, give him power."

— Abraham Lincoln

 

I.

He was someone you'd never notice. Just a guy delivering packages to folks you'd never know. Though he, Soul Evans, made one mistake, it was enough. Hundreds of lives lost in an explosion of which he stood in the dead center—the eye of the storm. He woke up in the middle of it all with blood staining his hands.

It was all his fault. He regretted ever opening that package. Every time he retraced his steps, it always came down to the moment he got that stupid phone call.

_“Open the package, Soul.”_

“S’cuse me?”

_“Open it.”_

“Who is this? How do you know my name?”

_“It will give you power. Open it.”_

“You’re full of shit, whoever you are.”

_“Let’s make a deal then. Open the package, and I’ll mail you $500.”_

“Bull.”

_“Rent is awfully hard to keep up with these days, isn’t it? I’m surprised you’d be willing to pass on a free handout with an eviction notice hanging over your head.”_

A pause.

“Make it a grand.”

_“Deal.”_

And like a fool, he, the simple bike messenger seen by all as a nobody, opened the package because of a stranger’s promise. The man only spoke a few words to him but it was enough for him to break protocol and open the package with the faulty listed address that glowed blue at the seams. One grand was all it took. An explosion with a radius of seven blocks happened because _he wouldn’t make his rent on time._ People died because of his naivety, no, because of his _idiocy_. He took a stranger’s word because he was desperate, and this was the price he had to pay.

He was meant to suffer for his crime. He—

“Agh! Fucking hell!” It felt like his skin was being ravaged by fire.

“Sorry, Mr. Evans. I know the burns are still tender,” a voice whispered in his ear, and his rage simmered down. Her gentle caresses as she changed his dressings were welcomed, though that wasn’t shown outright. His wounded ego couldn’t take another hit.

“Could’ve used a warning, Maka,” he grunted. The way her brow scrunched up when he called her by name satisfied him. She insisted that he call her nurse Albarn from the very beginning, but he liked to bend the rules to get a rise out of her. It was fun. When made into a charred mummy and declared bedridden for days, entertainment was hard to come by; so when it knocked, he answered.

“I did warn you,” she huffed. “But you were too busy daydreaming.”

Daydreaming? If she only knew, he thought.

“And what did I say about keeping things strictly professional?”

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Albarn.”

Maka seemed irked by his sass, but she didn’t fuss about it. “That’s better.” She finished with his dressings and looked over his chart, lips pursed and green eyes focused. It was a look he’d grown fond of over the past few days. Green slowly became his favorite color, but he’d never admit that aloud. Never. The idea of Soul Evans finding Maka Albarn _cute_ would never leave his lips. Not in a million years.

Suddenly, a frown etched into her face. “More abnormal activity than yesterday?”

He scoffed. _Abnormal._ That was the best Doctor Stein could come up with? Abnormal? His arms bristled with blue static as he griped, “Been working on it.”

As much as he fucking hated the stranger on the phone, the man hadn’t lied about the power. His body teemed with electricity, coursing through his veins like blood. He could produce it on command—he wasn't very good at it yet, but he was practicing. While Maka and Doctor Stein were busy with the influx of patients, Soul liked to play with his _abnormality_. He once scared a nurse half to death when he toyed with his heart monitor and made it flatline. Another time, he encased his arms with electricity and set his sheets on fire. The look on Maka’s face both times was priceless, but he’d be lying if he said that the fear he saw in her eyes didn't bother him.

When they first met, she told him she wasn't afraid. His body had convulsed with electricity when he woke up in the hospital, but she was strong enough to face him when no one else would. She had whispered sweet nothings into his ear and sedated him at the risk of getting shocked—maybe even killed. She was brave. Courageous. She made him feel unworthy in her presence.

But, as the days went on, his _abnormality_ must have been too concerning to look the other way. The fear radiating off the others—aside from the mad Doctor Stein—was bound to reach her eventually, he guessed.

“Working on it?” She looked surprised. He didn't blame her.

“Yes. Doesn't seem like it's going away so I might as well get used to it.” He wanted to control it, to master it. With this power, he’d atone for his mistakes. All those people who died—he can still hear their bloodcurdling screams in his head, even now—would be avenged. He owed them that much.

“You could hold back,” she said slowly. “Practice some restraint and live a more normal life.”

“A normal life?” He laughed in her face. It was cruel, but she was acting too naive. “Look outside, Albarn. Abnormalities aside, can’t you see how fucked up everything is now? There’s no such thing as normal anymore.”

The truth had been hard for the citizens of Death City to swallow.

The explosion was cataclysmic. In its wake about four days later, a plague seeped out of the city’s cracks and fogged the air with poison. Nobody saw it coming. People started getting sick fast and the death toll skyrocketed in a matter of hours. It was still on the rise even as he and Maka talked. To make matters worse, the government thought it was best to contain the plague before it could spread. Death City—his home—was quarantined. No one could leave unless they wanted a barrage of bullets shoved down their throats.

_Harsh, but necessary,_ the president would say.

Chaos reigned over Death City and peace and order was forgotten. Rioting, theft, rape, shootings—civilization within the quarantine walls started to commit suicide. The Reapers, the city’s drug addicts and gang members, rose to power while most of the police force was either dead or in hiding. With no one to oppose them, the Reapers began running rampant through the streets with abnormalities all their own. It made him sick to his stomach.

Just the other day the Reapers marched into the hospital looking for a high. This hospital in particular, mind you, stood alone in the city; its brethren were destroyed in the blast radius or torn down and looted in the early days of quarantine life. It carried valuable medications and drugs that were presumed to be extinct across the city. As Soul saw it, they might as well have painted a giant red target on their back.

At first, the nurses and doctors refused to give away any drugs despite all the threats. Their bravery was noted but fucking stupid. One Reaper went trigger happy, killing doctors, nurses, and patients alike. Another played Russian Roulette with children on the other side of the barrel. From the look Maka gave him as she relayed the news, there was one that harassed some of the nurses. He could read it plain as day in her eyes—the anger, the _disgust_. And with that, the Reapers got their drugs and went on their merry way. It pissed Soul off. If he weren’t so weak, he could’ve stopped them with his powers. He could’ve done something. Instead, he stayed trapped in bed and counted each gunshot and scream.

What if Maka had been in the lobby? She’d be dead. She would’ve stood up against the Reapers and earned a bullet or two between a rib, so she could suffer first, those fiends would say. Bleed out as everybody watched. _They_ would make everybody watch. And it would all be on him because he had the power to stop them but couldn’t.

“It was just a suggestion,” Maka muttered under her breath. She reminded him of a puppy; specifically a puppy beaten to a pulp with the toe of his boot. The look really didn’t suit her—it took the gleam out of her eyes. Simply pitiful. She couldn’t be left in such a state. Someone like her needed a spark to keep going, so he figured he’d throw her bone. Out of guilt, no doubt, for being an ass.

He swallowed his pride and started with, “Look, I—” before getting cut off by Mr. Wonderful himself.

“Yo!” BlackStar strolled into his room and greeted him with enough volume to pierce the heavens, as per usual. The loudmouth held up a pack of batteries with a grin and Soul promptly swore under his breath. “Got your crack, Thor. Triple A’s. Your favorite.”

He thought his soul left his body in that moment, as Maka looked between him and BlackStar like the pair had simultaneously grown a second head.

“Triple A batteries?” she asked, amused. His skin was blistering red from all his burns—he looked like fucking Deadpool without the suit and mask, _damn it_ —but the blush still managed to ripen his cheeks.

“Damn straight,” BlackStar hollered as he dropped the pack on the bed. Soul wanted to strangle him. “And god forbid you give him doubles, the guy will throw a bitch fit.”

“Star,” he hissed. “Not cool.” He couldn't be blamed for his good taste. Doubles didn’t have enough juice for him. Was that such a crime?

“What? I speak the truth and nothing but the, Electro Man.” The nicknames made Soul cringe. Thor, Electro Man, Sparky, Human Battery, Lightning Rod, Grease Lightning, Static Shock, Lightning McQueen—BlackStar knew exactly what buttons to push.

“Mr. Barrett,” Maka cut in. He hardly missed the hiccup— _a fucking giggle_ —in her voice. He wanted to sink into his mattress, shrivel up, and die. “It’s past visiting hours. You should really head home.”

“Don’t Mr. Barrett me, Albarn. It’s the mighty BlackStar you’re talking to. And family is allowed to stay, right?”

“Well, yes but—”

BlackStar plopped down in the chair next his bed and shot Maka a look. “Good thing we’re brothers, then. Guess I’m staying put. Not much of a home to go back to either, so camping out here is my best bet. You wouldn’t throw Soul’s brother out to the Reapers, now, would you?”

Maka looked to be at a loss, lip quivering and eyes sparking with uncertainty. She was a stickler for the rules but also one with a big heart; the two sides were probably clashing inside her big, nerdy brain. Soul, on the other hand, merely shook his head and laughed. BlackStar may have been an idiot, but he was one hell of a friend.

“Let him stay, Maka. He doesn’t bite.”

Like the little shit he was, BlackStar peeled his lips back with a finger and showed Maka his pearly whites. “I do, if you’re hot enough.” He gave Maka a quick once over, eliciting a sharp cry of offense from her and a low, inaudible growl from Soul. “Don’t worry, you’re off my radar.”

“Maaaka Chop!”

A textbook whirled through the air and the corner of the spine nailed BlackStar between the eyes. It was punctuated by a distinct crack and a wail from its target. At first Soul winced, but watching BlackStar fall back in his chair and howl in pain made him laugh until his stomach hurt because the guy fucking deserved it.

“What the fuck?” BlackStar seethed. “You hit me with a book?”

“It was well deserved.”

He rubbed his head and winced. “Was it the fucking dictionary?”

“My anatomy textbook actually, but not a bad guess.”

“Agh, fuck.”

“Oh, you’re fine. Stop whining. It’s not like I threw it hard enough to give you a concussion, and I would know if I did.” Maka picked up her textbook and tapped the spine for emphasis, and Soul decided that he really liked her educated style of snark.

BlackStar grumbled something under his breath about _moody nurses_ and _fucking anatomy_ before he jumped back to his feet and picked up his chair. In the process, a red envelope slipped out of his pocket and dropped to the floor like a feather. The edges were embroidered with a pinstripe pattern; it reminded Soul vaguely of his days sitting at the piano bench in front of a large, unsatisfied audience. Elegance, not his forte. When it landed, silence fell over the room, though he swore he heard it hit the floor with a thud. Heavy like a rock. And like in those moments before he took the stage back when he served his time as an Evans boy, Soul started to break a cold sweat.

“What’s that?” he asked. A simple question, but Soul dreaded the answer.

BlackStar shot him a perplexed look as he picked up the envelope. “Oh yeah, some guy in a trenchcoat caught me on the way over here. Gave me this and said it was for your ass.” He paused and knitted his brow, contemplating. “Said he had to pay up or something, like he owed you.”

“Owed me what?” Soul was on the edge of his seat, and it was Maka that quietly insisted that he lie back down. He ignored her and pressed his luck. The sharp pains of his crinkling, burnt skin as he hunched over paled in comparison to the anticipation brewing in the air.

“I don’t fucking know,” BlackStar said with as much eloquence as a drunk. “He gave me the creeps, so I let him go when he shoved this in my face and booked it. There was no time for answers, Sparky.”

Soul frowned. The messenger remained a mystery, as with the stranger who knew too much about him and made him the centerpiece of a massacre. Nothing seemed to add up. His whole situation was a mystery within itself—layers upon layers of uncertainty and questions with no answers.

“I don’t think you should open it,” Maka said as she tried to coax him back down onto his pillow. He didn’t budge. “For all you know, it could be dangerous. Haven’t the Reapers been experimenting lately with different drugs and toxins? It could be laced with something.”

Her concern touched his heart and her case was within reason—the Reapers were caught experimenting with strange concoctions almost daily—but his curiosity was piqued. He didn’t think anything could stop him from finding out the truth, or what he perceived to be the truth: the contents of that letter.

“Give it to me,” he grunted, and he didn’t miss how the corner of her lips fell as BlackStar handed him the letter. The look tied a knot in his stomach but it didn’t stop him from breaking the seal and pulling out the card nestled inside. He opened the card, snorting at the cheesy _“Get Well Soon”_ caption at the top. He quickly bit his tongue, however, the moment green bills caught his eye, barely hidden in a stitched pouch on the side.

“Well, what is it?” BlackStar drawled, impatient.

“Soul?” Maka sounded much more sincere. It was also the first time she called him by his first name.

He took out the cash and a breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was count the bills over and over again in his head and read the message scrawled at the bottom of the card.

_One grand, as promised. See you sometime soon, Soul._

Sincerely, O.

 

II.

The straw man crackled and spat sparks at him and he grinned. It was the kind of grin that people would call maniac and worthy of haunting someone's nightmares. Scary, demonic, inhuman. But he enjoyed the way the straw man withered in the flames, how the red jacket—a Reaper’s jacket—shifted into charred flakes until there was nothing left. Just a raging fire to light up the electric blue of his eyes—his eyes. Everything seemed foreign to him these days, but the heat frisking his skin felt right.

It’d been a couple months now since he’d woken up in the hospital, and the burns that marred his skin were all but healed. Doctor Stein had commented on how his skin had regenerated so quickly and seamlessly, leaving not even a single scar. He also mentioned experimentation, but Soul wanted to look on the bright side. He’d grown into new, healthy skin—naturally tanned skin, too, for that matter. His pale, sunlight reflecting days were over. But, at the end of the day, Soul was relieved more than anything about his fast recovery simply because he wouldn't have to hear the Deadpool jokes from Star anymore. They were corny as fuck.

He ran his hand over his peach fuzz, as BlackStar would call it, and thought about how it had started to grow back white. He was a natural blond. The abnormality had run deeper, much deeper, than anyone would have thought. His tongue scraped against the tips of his teeth, sharp, and recoiled when it drew blood. Actual blood. Instead of a yelp, a spark lit in his mouth. He spat it out in the flames and watched how it added to the inferno, setting a decent charge. The flames danced in color—oranges, reds, yellows, with a spec of blue. So beautiful, so warm. A finger slid over his lips and caught a droplet of blood, so small yet so comforting. Sometimes he forgot he was still human, that he could still bleed red.

“You're getting good at this,” BlackStar said, breaking Soul’s trance as he doused the poor straw figure with a bucket of water. “But I could do better.”

Better? Soul scoffed. “I'd like to see you try wielding electricity. It's not that easy, y’know.”

BlackStar cackled and tossed the bucket. “The great me is too big for that kind of challenge. I could do it in my sleep.”

Soul rolled his eyes, but he didn't miss the pang of jealousy in BlackStar’s voice. The way he watched Soul shoot lightning from his fingertips. It was all so clear. Star hadn’t caught the superhuman bug Death City was buzzing about, which he insisted for weeks that he would. He talked about what powers he’d get and how he’d use them for _weeks_. But Star wasn't a conduit—the politically correct term the city came up with for people like Soul. Soul didn't how to feel about it—everything was too new and fucked up to process—but he knew how BlackStar felt.

Left out. Or, as he would say, out of the spotlight.

“I'm sure you would,” Soul replied, humoring him. BlackStar’s insecurities were a talk for another day or, if Soul got his way, never. He could hardly hash out his own feelings let alone face someone else's. He was fucked up like that— _feeling-repellent_ , more than anything. Sympathy was foreign ground. He wouldn't dare set foot there unless the barrel of a gun was pressed between his shoulders, and even then he’d hesitate. Pathetic but true, and he knew it.

“I would fucking own it!” BlackStar yelled, and Soul remembered that his friend wasn't too savvy with feelings either. He cracked a smile, hiding it with his collar, and stared at the mess the straw man left behind. Nothing but ashes. _Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._ And boy, would the Reapers fall.

“B-Barrett! Evans!”

Her voice was enough to make two grown men stand at attention like they'd just been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. BlackStar, still nursing too many Maka Chops to count, and Soul, just deemed worthy enough the other day to receive his first one. She used their last names too, which meant nothing but trouble. Them being in trouble. He ducked down into his collar and shuddered under her gaze. Who knew someone of her small stature could be so damn terrifying.

Maka whipped her head side to side, drinking in Soul and BlackStar’s new arrangement—set up on the hospital roof, of all places—and scowled. It reminded him of the disappointed looks his mother would give him after a recital—dark, intimidating, tear-worthy. In response, he quickly decided that his feet were far more interesting to look at.

“What...is this?” She pointed at the leftovers of straw man, but he assumed she meant the whole set-up in general. The training grounds BlackStar had constructed on the _down low_ , he had said, while Soul was still bedridden. The graveyard of fallen straw men, the wide assortment of Christmas lights, a mini fridge—for snacks, bro—and about a dozen other old electrical doodads BlackStar had scavenged around the city. To them, it was a playground, but to her, it looked like they’d just trashed the rooftop for the hell of it.

“Reaper scum,” BlackStar mumbled, eyeing the ashes at her feet. “Static Shock needed some practice, so…”

“You commandeered the hospital’s roof?” she finished for him, unamused. Her eyes looked like daggers, if that made sense, piercing through their chests with scorn. It sent chills down his spine.

“Y’see, when you put it like that it sounds like a crime.” BlackStar couldn't talk his way out of paper bag, so Soul settled on sending up silent prayers to the man upstairs. As if there was anyone up there to answer him.

Maka pinched the bridge of her nose, fuming. It was cute in a _she’s probably contemplating my murder kind of way._ Also hot in a _I’d let her murder me kind of way_. He watched one finger stray from the others, brushing against the bruise staining the swell of her cheek, and he grit his teeth.

A couple days ago Maka walked into his room with that bruise on her cheek, clear as day, while Doctor Stein was giving him one of his daily checkups. Even at Soul’s insistence and worry, she kept quiet about it. She said it wasn’t his business, but it was. She was his business, whether he’d truly come to terms with it or not, and he needed to know what fuckboy had laid a grubby hand on her so he could end them. Luckily, Stein was very talkative with a few beers under his belt, and he spilled the beans: a Reaper had tried to take advantage of her but she fought back and got away.

That news had lit a fire under his skin that had been too hot for him to put out. Even now it burned like an eternal flame.

“You two are unbelievable. You know, under your feet there are people fighting for their lives and mourning their loved ones. There are people dying and you’re up here playing superhero with a bunch of straw!” She kicked one of the straw men with her steel-toed boot over and over again, as if one could punctuate their point by creating a whirlwind of straw. He started to imagine the Reaper that jumped her lying on the ground at the mercy of her toed-steel, and it made him grin. Then he imagined himself in the straw man’s shoes and winced.

“I’m sorry, Maka,” he started, and she cut him off before he could continue.

“Sorry?” She stopped to laugh. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to make up for your lack of respect!”

“Maka, I—”

“I haven’t heard from Mama in days, and you two are up here playing games with the dying trying to sleep under your feet,” she gritted out, shaking her head. “You’re both unbelievable!”

There was nothing left to say when the tears started falling. Soul wasn’t well-versed with feelings—he couldn’t comfort her. He wanted to, but he was too afraid. BlackStar scooted to the rooftop’s edge, putting as much distance between him and her as possible. He wasn’t the comforting type either.

“So stupid,” she choked out between sobs. Soul didn’t know how much more of her pity party he could take. He watched her small frame start to shake, and she kept trying to wipe away all her tears before they could fall. Sadly, a few escaped, tracing a path down her porcelain skin over the dark swell of her cheek. He really, really didn’t like how that made him feel. Powerless, hopeless, defeated. Watching her unravel out of her usual steely-exterior started to take its toll on him. He needed to speak up.

“M-Maka,” he croaked, cursing himself for the stutter in his voice. BlackStar shot him a look, shocked but amused, and he ignored it. “I’m sorry. About your mom, I mean. For what it’s worth, I haven’t heard from my mother at all since the beginning.” He fumbled with his words and caught BlackStar making a cut-throat gesture at him, but he pressed on. “You’re luckier than me. Mom won’t call me even though I’m trapped in this hell hole, but at least yours would if she could. That has to feel good, right?”

If asked later, Soul wouldn’t confess to what happened. He’d remember the jolt of pain when her hand struck his face, but he wouldn’t admit that she slapped him. He wouldn’t and he didn’t know why. Denial, maybe? He was so confused.

“Y-You’re such an ass!”

Soul took a step back, eyes wide, and held his hands up in surrender. “Maka, I—”

“Death City General!”

The world stopped turning the moment a voice echoed through a megaphone. It sounded distorted, inhuman. Like nothing he’d ever heard before. Soul looked down from the rooftop, recognizing the red jacket branded with the skull on the hood, and clenched his fists. Reapers.

“It’s time to pay up!” The announcer turned around to look back at his rowdy friends—his makeshift army—before speaking into the megaphone again. “Reapers reap! Reapers reap! Reapers reap!” They all started chanting together as they marched up to the hospital doors, guns raised and trained on the windows. It was a cacophony of monster-like shrills and hisses ready to reach crescendo with gunfire.

“Well shit,” BlackStar cursed under his breath. The man looked so at a loss, and it didn't suit him. But who was he to try to go up against an army of conduit punks? He talked the good talk and fought the good fight, sure, but he wasn't strong enough. He was powerless.

Soul, on the other hand, was not.

He stepped onto the very edge of the rooftop and looked down, swallowing hard. It was an eight story drop at least. The fall could kill him—the ordinary him—but could it kill the new and improved Soul Evans?

“Soul?” Maka’s hand gripped the doorknob and she looked about ready to run a marathon down the stairs—the elevators stopped working a month ago. But she hesitated and watched him instead, worry clouding her eyes. The anger and the hurt had died down.

“What the hell, Soul?” BlackStar added as he took a step toward him. Soul inched closer to edge and BlackStar hesitated, reading all the cues, which Soul knew he would. Star was an idiot half the time but not all the time. As if to put the cherry on top, Soul started to charge balls of electricity in his palms, and the message was read loud and clear.

BlackStar shook his head, chuckling. “Give them hell, partner.”

Soul smirked. “You got it.”

“S-Soul!” Maka shrieked, and the way she bolted toward him warmed his heart. It made that last step, just out of her reach, that much easier.

He was in free fall.

“SOUL!”

There were flashes lighting up behind his eyes as he fell, showing him, unconscious, lying in the middle of a ditch. The helicopter buzzing, sirens, and voices in the air gave him a headache.

_Hey, you need to get out of there!_ A man aboard the helicopter had shouted at him, and Soul opened his eyes and saw a broken city landscape.

_It's too dangerous to land! You need to get up and move!_ He stood up amongst all the rubble, ears ringing and eyes blurring. Everything was in limbo. He couldn't remember how he got there or why the man was yelling at him. Nothing made sense.

_That building’s gonna go! Run!_ He stumbled around like a drunk at the man’s insistence, toppling over when the building behind him crash landed and sent an overwhelming shockwave through the ground. He blacked out.

“What the hell is that?!”

“Is that guy suicidal?”

“What's that blue stuff around’em!”

“What the fuck?”

_Hey, get up! You need to get up!_ Soul opened his eyes and coughed up all the dust caking the insides of his lungs. His throat felt like sandpaper.

_You need to keep moving!_ The helicopter veered to the right, coming into his line of sight. It looked like a giant, black blob but he could see it.

_There's people who can help you at DC Park. It's only three blocks away, you can make it._ Soul nodded slowly, and it felt like his brain was sloshing around in his head.

_That's it, now keep moving! Don't you dare die on me!_ The helicopter drifted farther to the right, out of his sight, and Soul opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He wanted them to come back, please, don't leave him, but his throat was too dry to speak.

“He's turning into a blue ball!”

“He's gonna blow!”

The impact was jarring, and Soul created a blue shockwave of his own, throwing the Reapers off their feet.

“Agh! What the hell was that?!”

“Blue devil!”

“Shoot him!”

With each step he took through the city rubble, Soul was disoriented by the jolt of blue that shot through his body. It tore through his veins like fire, burning them to a crisp. His skin felt like it was going to start melting to his feet. His eyes were strained, seeing in shades of blue, and his ears were overwhelmed by static. Everything burned. The pulsing and the aching as the static tore his body apart from the inside out was the most painful experience he’d ever known. Nothing would ever come close.

_Sir! You there, sir! Over here!_ He looked up, drinking in the sights of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks huddled around DC Park. There were so many people ready to help, but he didn't see a single soul being treated. Aside from the first responders, the park was a ghost town. No other survivors. A lump caught in his throat.

_You’re almost there! Keep moving!_ He heeded the man’s words and kept his pace, ignoring the pain the best he could, and inched closer and closer to the barricade of police cars.

“Hit him, damn it! You're all horrible shots!”

Soul felt each painful twinge of the past as he began his assault, or maybe he’d been hit and grazed enough times already to mimic the old aches. He didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't stop. The streams of lightning he shot into the hoard of men were continuous. The satisfaction of watching men fall and not get up was exhilarating. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. The Reapers were falling at his feet and it gave him such a rush.

“Not so tough now, are ya!” he bellowed, voice stitched with a confidence he’d never known before. It didn't sound like him, but he liked it. He loved it, actually. It wasn't like him at all.

“F-Fuck!”

“Get him!”

The moment Soul had crossed the police barricade, the moment he was ready to fall into safety’s loving arms, was the moment his body was overtaken by blue fire. He fell to his knees and screamed, illuminated by all the static crackling in the air, and all the first responders started running away from him. They were going to leave him. Alone. He couldn't have that—he couldn't. So he scrambled to his feet and called to them, begging for them to come back, to help him, but the answer he got was devastating.

His body had contorted as the blue fire took over, his arms spreading wide and fingers bending and tensing, and lightning started striking the ground at his command. His command. The screaming, crying, and smell of burning flesh came from his command. He wanted to puke his guts out, to let the lightning hit him and end him, but he couldn't deny the exhilaration, the ecstasy. People were dying and somewhere deep down within him was enjoying this, the power, everything. It was sickening.

“Kill him!”

His body contorted like it had back at DC Park, and bolts of lightning touched down in the midst of all the Reapers, creating a moment of devastation. Some went flying, others were burnt to a crisp, and a lucky few managed to escape Soul’s wrath without a scratch. They fled hospital grounds and disappeared back into the city’s alleyways, back where they belonged.

The lightning eventually stopped, and Soul stopped to look down at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. They wouldn't stop no matter how many times he mumbled under his breath and told them to stop. _Stop. Just stop._ They didn't listen.

“S-Soul?”

She sounded scared and out of breath, and he couldn't turn around to face her. He couldn't look her in the eyes because of one simple fact.

In those moments, when people screamed in anguish and fell from his hands, Soul had never felt so alive.

He finally looked at her, tears brimming his eyes, and uttered, “H-Help me.”

_“It will give you power.”_

Soul collapsed not even a second after that, and he barely saw the steel-toed boots sprinting toward him before everything faded to black. Just like before.

_“Now it's up to you to decide how you'll use it. I know you'll make the right choice, Soul. I've always known.”_

 

III.

Soul sat on the rooftop later that day under the moonlight, shirtless, bare before her, as she stitched him back together again. He hadn't spoken a word since his plea for help. His throat itched like it had before, after the explosion, and it rattled him down to the core. Easier if he had an excuse not to speak, at least. He didn't know what to say.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“It’d be really nice to hear your voice, you know.”

Tweezers suddenly dug under his skin, reaching for a stray bullet, and he cried out in agony.

“Shhh, shhh.” She rubbed his back and massaged his shoulder with her one hand, while the other digged deeper and deeper into his hip. His eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned. “Just a little more, Soul, almost done.”

When she pulled the bullet out of his side, he bit through his lip and screamed like an animal caught in a trap. It was high-pitched, cracked, and ended with a tight sob wracking his chest.

“Soul, it's out. You're okay,” she whispered in his ear. A tear slid down his cheek and he tensed when a small, nimble finger wiped it away. “Shhh, it's okay. You're okay.” An arm loosely wrapped around his neck from behind, and he felt the air leave his lungs. “Soul, please. You're better than this.” The way her fingers ghosted over his chest was unfair. “I know you're better than this.”

“I'm not,” he grunted.

“You are,” she stressed, and her other arm snaked under his and wrapped around his stomach. He flinched. “I watched you singlehandedly take down a pack of Reapers to protect this hospital. I know you are.”

“You don’t know shit,” he growled, hoping she’d take a hint and leave him to drown in his self-hatred alone. “You think you do, but you don’t.”

He could feel her frown against his ear, his ear, and he took a breath, slow but ragged. “Maka,” he rasped, “I’m hardly human.” What person could call themselves human and enjoy slaughtering other people? He was an animal. A demon, actually. Animals weren’t that cruel and barbaric.

“Soul, you’re—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Maka.”

“But you’re—”

“Don’t.”

“I—”

_“Maka.”_

_“Soul.”_

Both of her hands pressed against his chest in a swift motion and he froze. A minute passed, but it felt like an hour. His breathing stalled under her touch and his body was as stiff as a board. She had a power over him that he didn’t understand. She put a spell on him, an enchantment. Enough to keep the electricity in his blood from lashing out. What was her secret?

“As long as I can still feel your heart beating, you’re human. You got that?”

He stared blankly ahead, looking over the horizon of the city, and didn’t respond.

She grabbed his hand and shoved it against his chest. “Do you feel that?” The small thump, like the beat of a drum, pulsed underneath his palm. Yes, he could feel it. But feeling wasn’t believing.

Her chest pressed against his back and he blushed. “Do you feel this too, Soul?” Yes, he thought, and it was doing weird things to his body. “That’s my heartbeat.” _Oh._ “It’s in sync with yours, and I’m human. Don’t you get it?”

He wanted to, but placing him and Maka on the same playing field didn’t seem fair. Maka saved lives—that was her passion—and he took lives. It was his dirty pleasure. Hard to admit to, but the truth was never easy. Maka was on a profoundly different level than him.

“Soul, please. Everybody makes mistakes. It’s what we do after that counts.”

His eyes closed and he shook his head. “But I keep thinking about the past.”

“I know, I know. But you can move on, I know you can.”

“What if I can’t?”

Her hands came up and lightly brushed his cheeks, wiping the tears from his face. He couldn't remember when he started crying again. “I believe in you, Soul.”

Her voice didn’t waver, and he could feel her power, her faith. It lit a fire in his blood—a torch that he’d always keep with him. He couldn’t give up because he couldn’t let her down. That was how he’d keep moving, how he’d get back up after being knocked on his ass. He believed in the Maka that believed in him, and he wouldn’t take that for granted even if he did think he was a lost cause. He’d give himself another chance, like she wanted him to. He owed her that.

Soul looked over his shoulder with a look of admiration in his eyes and mumbled, “Maka I— _mmm!”_

Lips. There were lips on his. Maka lips. Maka’s lips were on his. A kiss. Maka was kissing him. _Him_. Soul had dreams about this moment. He’d close his eyes and tuck her hair behind her ear, cup her cheek, and put all that he had into their first kiss. Instead, with the real deal, he panicked. Teeth clanked, noses bumped, and his eyes were open the entire time in horror. This was not what he imagined.

Maka broke it, lips pursed and cheeks dusted pink, and jerked out of the embrace she’d built around him. He shivered from the cold.

“I-I need to go,” she sputtered as she got to her feet. “P-Patients need me.”

Soul stared at her, at a loss for words. She took whatever he could’ve said right out of his mouth with that kiss.

“G-Get some rest, Mr. Evans.”

The door clicked shut behind her and Soul was left alone, like what he longed for earlier. Now that loneliness, punctuated with the way she chose to say his last name, stung.

_“Choose wisely, Soul.”_

He rolled on his side, careful of his wounds, and closed his eyes, the taste of mint on his lips bleeding into his dreams.

_“I know you’ll make the right decision when the time is right.”_

 

IV.

“You ready to blow this joint?”

Soul shrugged on his yellow jacket and shot BlackStar a look. “Yeah, starting to suffocate in this place. Could really use the fresh air.”

BlackStar chuckled. “Fresh? Boy, are you in for a surprise.”

It’d been a month since the Reapers marched on hospital grounds, and a month since he blew them away with his powers. They hadn’t made a move since then, but he was always on guard. Always on the lookout on the roof while he trained with BlackStar. Except now, as he walked through the lobby toward the exit, he realized his days of playing watchdog were over. The hospital was on its own.

“Ah, Mr. Evans,” Stein greeted him, conveniently with a scalpel in one hand. Just out of surgery. Typical. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. You’ve been a great help around here.” And a decent lab rat, Soul tacked on for him in his head. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave us just yet? I’d love to run more tests for old time’s sake. To be thorough, you know.”

Soul shuddered. “I’m good, thanks.”

“So you are.” Stein took a step back and, from the look he gave Soul, seemed to be dissecting him with his eyes. Soul crossed his arms over his chest and huffed, annoyed and insecure. He didn’t need this right now. “Hard to believe that you showed up on our doorstep as nothing more than a burnt corpse. Oh, how time flies. Now look at you.” Soul’s white hairline barely touched his brow and his skin was as smooth and unscathed as a baby’s bottom. He looked brand new, but the emotional scars still lingered and haunted his dreams. “You’re good as new.”

Soul cringed, mostly because Stein gave him the creeps, and nodded. “Yeah, thanks for the patch up, Doc.”

“Anytime, Mr. Evans.” Stein’s hand clapped his shoulder and Soul tensed up. “You’re always welcome here, so don’t be a stranger.” The smile Stein wore seemed fabricated, unreal, but Soul took it at face-value for the Doc’s sake. A genuine smile was not in the man’s cards, so Soul would give him the benefit of the doubt. Just this once.

“I won’t, Doc.” It felt like a lie, especially when he licked his lips and tasted mint.

It had been a month since that awkward first kiss, and Soul sought desperately to have a redo. Maka, on the other hand, didn't seem interested. Any talk about that night on the roof was shot down before he’d have the chance to mention the kiss, as if she wanted to pretend like it never happened. They spent a lot of time together, sure. They talked, they laughed, they played, they fought, and they made up. But that first kiss— _a real first kiss_ —seemed to be out of reach for both of them.

It really, _really_ didn't sit well with him. He wasn't sure if he was ready to face his feelings yet, but he knew he wanted that kiss more than anything. And he wanted Maka to want it too. Was that too much to ask for?

Seeing as how she’d skipped out on saying their goodbyes, he’d say so. Not one word. No sign of her, either. It really put a damper on his mood. Maybe it was time for him to leave the past behind, starting with DC General and her. Time to move onto bigger and better things. Sadly, he could only think of her when he thought of such things. How pathetic.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Stein replied, interrupting Soul’s train of thought. Probably for the better, too, because of the lack of positivity. He was running short on that these days.

“Yo, Lightning McQueen, we’re burning daylight,” BlackStar called out, annoyed. “Get your ass in gear.”

“Coming,” Soul grunted. He turned to Stein and the nurses and waved his goodbyes, pretending like the absence of ash-blonde hair in the crowd didn't sting. This silent, brooding pining business really wasn't his forte. It hurt like hell, too. He pinched his thigh through his jeans, hoping to break out of his broken-record funk, and took his first steps toward BlackStar and the exit. Surely walking out of this place as a free, healthy man would help lift his spirits.

Or so he hoped.

Ten feet. He was ten feet away from his ticket to freedom when someone pulled him into the bathroom—the women’s bathroom—and locked the door. He squawked, caught off guard, and braced himself against the sink. One blink, two blinks, three. It all happened so fast. One minute he was about to make his exit, and then the next he was staring at his ugly mug in the bathroom mirror. White hair, sharp teeth, and blue eyes that crackled with static. What a freak he turned into, he thought with a scowl.

“You're leaving.”

_Oh._

He almost forgot about the person that dragged him into this mess in the first place. Her face reflected over his shoulder in the mirror, green eyes guarded and body more rigid than usual. She’d lost her glow somehow—her angelic light. An aura of gloom cast over her instead, and Soul really didn’t like that look on her. She didn’t look like the Maka he knew at all. Where was her courage, her might, her _spark?_

“Yes,” he answered sheepishly. How could he respond to that? “I’m discharged and ready to go.”

She tucked her chin down into her collar and fisted her scrubs. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Just okay, Soul.”

Okay? He wanted more than just... _okay_. He needed a lot more.

“That's all you've got for me?” he tried. He ran his hand through a tuft of hair and looked her hard in the eyes—those green, green eyes. Soul needed something, anything better than okay, because he wasn't okay. He really wasn’t.

Her smile looked fake. “I hope you find what you're looking for, Soul.”

Ah, fuck him.

“You dragged me into the women’s bathroom...for this?”

Maka knitted her brow and her lips parted so enticingly, like the universe itself was working against him. Her lips. _Red, wet, plump._ It was torture. He licked his own lips and daydreamed about the taste of wintergreen mint.

“I...what?”

Soul shook his head—no more lips, _damn it_ —and frowned. “I haven't seen you all day and now you show up. I'm leaving and all I get is an okay and a I hope you find what you're looking for? What the hell, Maka? And frankly, I'm still not over that kiss.” He stopped to shush her before she could protest. “Don't even start with me, Albarn. I deserve more than this. I want more than just okay.” Maka took a step toward him, but it didn't matter because he was far from done. No, Soul Evans had a lot on his mind and the confidence to speak it to boot. He was just getting started. “I'm not letting you off the hook this time because I can't take this shit any—”

A finger pressed against his lips. Her finger. Maka’s finger. The strong urge to take it in his mouth nearly overcame him, but he deemed the act to be way too inappropriate and unfit for the situation. Still, it was tempting. Deliciously tempting. God, he was so fucked.

“I'm sorry,” she answered with a hitch in her voice. “I'm just…afraid, okay?”

Soul blinked, surprised.

_Maka Albarn._ The girl who walked through lightning to calm him down while the other nurses kept their distance. _Maka Albarn._ The girl who kicked Reaper ass when one thought he could get lucky with her. _Maka Albarn._ The girl who knocked BlackStar’s ego down a peg or two with an anatomy textbook. _Maka fucking Albarn_. The girl who pieced him back together again when his world fell apart.

Maka Albarn, _afraid?_ Impossible.

“But you kissed me first,” he blurted, which undoubtedly wasn’t the best thing to say. Words had never been his cup of tea. He’d say he was a man of action, but truth was he bailed half the time. Useless, pathetic, a fucking scaredy cat. That was him in a nutshell.

“Let’s forget about that,” Maka sputtered. She stepped back toward the door and Soul reached to stop her. “Soul, please. I'm not ready.”

He stopped and slipped his hands in his jacket pockets. Not ready. Again, it stung, but he’d respect her wishes. There was nothing Soul would (could) ever force her into doing. Maka called the shots and what she said was law—end of story. But damn, it really did sting.

“If you say you're not ready, you're not ready. I respect that.” He licked the corner of his lip—the mint flavor had dissolved now—and looked down at his feet. “Not sure if I'm ready, either. Honestly, I probably would’ve shit my pants if you tried to make another move on me.” Maka giggled. Score one for Soul. His win tally board was still sparse but he’d take it. “It would probably be a half-assed kiss anyway.” He was rambling, shit. “On my part, I mean. I'd fuck it up somehow, I don't know. It's what I do best.”

“Soul, stop talking.” She was smiling. Maka fucking Albarn was smiling. Like sunshine on a cloudy day, Soul thought (and yes, he did just quote a cheesy song—bite him).

“Stopping,” he uttered, bashful. His cool took a one way ticket to no man’s land when it came to Maka.

“Good.”

A pause.

“What now?” he asked. His anxiety and blood pressure were through the roof, which did wonders for his health. He had maybe five minutes before he’d pass out. Tops. That was what this woman could do to him. Damn, he had it bad and he was too chickenshit to admit it, even to himself.

Maka dug her teeth into her lip—her red, wet, plump lip. It made him dizzy. He could see stars, damn it. She took a step toward him and, fuck it, he would swear on his life that her lips brushed against his left cheek. Her lips. His left cheek. _On his life._

“Goodbye, Soul. Stay out of trouble for me, okay?”

He nodded dumbly, like a bobble head, and watched her smile—a real smile—as she headed toward the door and unlocked it. Everything shifted into slow motion and he could hear colors and see sounds. He didn't want the moment to end.

The second the door swung open, he shouted, “It's not goodbye. I'm not done with you yet, Maka Albarn, just you wait. I'll be back for you.”

Soul really didn't think he had it in him to speak up like that, but he did, wow.

Maka stared at him, mouth agape and cheeks stained red. The look on her face was satisfying, he thought, but he didn't enjoy the few dozen other looks coming his way.

Patients were startled and confused about his outburst—especially since it came from the women’s bathroom. A few nurses giggled amongst themselves and whispered faint _I knew it’s_ under their breaths. Stein rose a brow, and Soul wanted to wipe that wise-ass smirk off his face. Now BlackStar—that _fucktard_ —started whistling and clapping like a dancing seal.

“Bout time you grew a pair, Lightning Rod!” BlackStar made a crude gesture at his crotch with a smirk, and Soul silently begged for death.

Fuck his life. But at least, seeing as how Maka’s blush reached the tips of her ears as she beat BlackStar to a pulp, he had the girl when they were ready. And he’d wait for an eternity or more because Maka Albarn was someone worth waiting for. Despite all the shit that’d flung his way, he knew that without a doubt.

Things were looking up.

“Agh, get off me!”

“I am literally going to kill you!”

“Do it, you won’t!”

“Try me!”

Soul rolled his eyes. If only a little, he thought.

 

V.

Hidden in the shadows, deep within the bowels of Death City, a figure in a pinstripe suit paced with a scowl carved into its features.

_"You're distracted, Soul. You need to wake up,"_ it hissed. _"No matter what you do and who may try to get in your way, you'll always reach the same destination. I know you will come to your senses. It's only a matter of time."_


	2. Chapter 2

" _Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men._ "

— John F. Kennedy

 

I.

 “What in the fuck is that?!”

The ground erupted beneath Soul’s feet with a surge of energy and catapulted him into a parked car. The alarm went off, blaring in his ears, and he ripped his lucky jacket on the shattered window. Just his luck.

God, this vigilante business really, _really_ wasn’t his thing. Two months into it and he was already a sight for sore eyes. Dirty scruff, unruly white hair, scars out the whazoo, and grubby clothes. He did not sign up for this shit. Unless, per say, somebody argued that by opening the blue fuckbox that got him into this mess in the first place was enough to accuse him of _signing_ up. Then yes, he was guilty. Sue him.

“I don’t fucking know, Star,” he spat while dodging another blast. “But we sure pissed him off.”

“You think he’s a Reaper? Because the white jacket really isn’t their MO.”

Soul cringed at the red staining his own jacket. His _favorite_ jacket. “Neither is the random spurts of teleportation and the fucking seismic quakes.”

BlackStar ducked into an alley and called out, “Touché!” What a fucking tool. “So look, Electro Man. I’m not big on having my ass roasted by some scrawny dude in a white trench, so...I’ll let you have this one. Consider it a gift from your god.”

Soul scoffed. Some _gift_. Though, seeing as how there was a fire in BlackStar’s eyes—lighted by the gasoline prowess of anger and envy—Soul decided it was best not to comment. With a curt nod from him, BlackStar made his exit. The poor guy’s curses echoed down the alleyway like a broken record.

Man, Soul really needed a lesson in confrontation because Star’s jealousy was going to tailspin sooner or later. Too bad he lacked a backbone and basic human compassion—he blamed that on being _feeling-repellent._ Score one for anxiety, and nothing for poor ol’ Soul. Pity.

“Die!”

Soul barrel rolled across the street as a mix between a shrill and a growl— _hardly human_ — insisted that he kick the bucket via energy quake. Not today, he thought. Cars went airborne and littered the city sidewalks but he was still in one piece. Though when he scrambled to his feet only to come face to face with a bright light materializing into a white jacket with a skeleton printed on it, he started to rethink his odds. 

First thought, why the _fuck_ was he not graced with the power of teleportation? And second thought, the bones on the jacket meant this asshat was a Reaper. A Reaper on conduit steroids.

The energy quake hit him point blank this time, scorching his _favorite_ jacket and launching him across DC Boulevard like a rag doll. Now, instead of being cushioned by a parked car, he landed on a bed of asphalt.

“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled under his breath. He sat up and winced, wondering if he broke a rib or two with that impact or if he was too _invincible_ for that shit anymore. Seeing as how he managed to get to his feet after two tries, he’d side _partially_ with the latter. The pain still lingered though, like he’d been run over by a truck... _twice_. It was just one of those days.

“Die! Die! Die!”

More shrills, more quakes, more acrobatic dodging on his part. Soul would give the juiced-up conduit an A for effort, but its accuracy was starting to circle the drain. Its attacks were sporadic now. Patience, obviously, was not something this thing valued. _Quake, quake, quake_. It wouldn't stop with the damn quakes. DC Boulevard had turned into a shit-fest, torn apart at the concrete seams by this trigger-happy conduit.

Soul jumped to the side and gripped onto a building window pane, thanking _god_ for all those years of reckless city parkour with Star. He needed to buy time for his next move. Hell, what he really needed was to go on the offensive. No more dodging or getting hit. He couldn't stay the butt of this conduit’s joke for too much longer.

“Play with me,” it hissed from below, and he nearly shook in his boots. Creepy as _fuck._

“I'm nobody’s plaything,” he growled. “Especially not for the Reapers.”

An incoherent string of high-pitched shrills and animal-like growls answered him, and he rose a brow in question.

“S’cuse me?”

“You are our _plaything_ ,” it snapped. “Killing you is the ultimate prize.”

A little rough around the edges, but Soul got the message this time.

“I'm flattered. Really, I am. But I'm here to kill you, and every one of your fuckboy friends. This prize is out to bite you in the ass.”

He really had a way with words. Maka had said so once, but that might've been the time he coerced her into drinking one night after having a bad day. He couldn't remember. The memory was...well, _fuzzy_.

“We will see about that.”

Soul blinked. There was something eerily chilling about how close the Reaper had sounded, like it had just whispered in his ear. He looked up and, lo and behold, there it was. The asswipe was standing on the very edge of the window pane, an inch away from brushing his fingertips.

“Fuck teleportation,” he griped. It really wasn't fair.

The shrill and growl morphed into a strangled chuckle as it charged another quake in Soul’s face—which was in perfect roasting range, mind you.

“The prize is mine,” it hissed in his ear.

Strangely enough—but not _really_ —Soul thought of Maka in this moment. Her smile, her laugh, the _green_ of her eyes. The mint sparkling in his mouth tasted bittersweet now, but it was there. Which reminded him, actually, that a _real_ first kiss was still on his bucket list. He was _still_ on Maka’s bench for an eternity. How could he check out so soon before Maka called him up to bat? 

“Not today, Reaper scum,” he seethed as he grabbed its ankle and unleashed the hellfire in his blood—a high wattage jolt of the good ol’ Evans electric love.

The Reaper screamed, sounding more human than it ever had before, and tumbled off the window pane. And, since Soul was stubborn as hell, he held onto the bastard’s ankle and took the fall with it. It hurt like a bitch, but he wanted to make sure he roasted the fucker. He wanted Reaper barbecue.

After about a minute or two of overkill, Soul let go and stood over the Reaper carcass, exhilarated. It felt good, but utterly wrong. But good? It baited him and wanted his head on a platter, so he defended himself...by burning it alive from the inside out.

“Bite me,” Soul quipped to no one in particular aside from the conduit jerky, and then he turned his back on the beaten DC Boulevard and started walking. Like in the movies, he thought.

He didn't hear the strained, gravelly grunt or the whoosh of a jacket being pulled aside, but he sure as hell heard the _bang_.

Something jumped up and bit him in the ass, and he fell face-first into a bed of asphalt with an unmanly yelp.

Just one of those _fucking_ days

 

II.

“One more time, then I _swear_ I'm done,” BlackStar insisted, and there was an annoying chuckle booming in his voice. “So you told the Reaper _‘this prize is out to bite you in the ass’_ and then you get shot in the ass?” He stopped to laugh until there were tears spewing from his eyes. _Asshole_ . “I'd say you were the _butt_ of the joke today, Grease Lightening.”

Soul groaned and hid his face in the hospital-brand pillow. He did not _deserve_ this kind of humiliation. “I didn't know he had a gun,” he grumbled pitifully. The creeper was supposedly _barbecue_ , too.  

“No shit?” BlackStar’s laughter echoed down the hallway, probably to the next room a floor above them. _That_ loud. God, Soul needed to invest in better friends.

“You need to be more careful,” a quiet, angelic voice spoke up.

 _Oh._ He forgot. Listening to BlackStar’s awful jokes and puns was annoying, but tolerable. He could take it. What he _couldn't_ take, however, was the fact that he was lying face down on a gurney with his pants around his ankles while the woman he's been pining after for _months_ was casually poking and prodding his _ass_ with tweezers to take out the conduit fuckface’s bullet. He’d officially hit rock bottom, folks. Pray for him.

“Your right ass cheek has a peep hole now,” BlackStar commented with a cackle.

“Do you have to be in here? This is an invasion of privacy.”

“What? Don't you remember the high school locker room days?”

Soul shuddered. “I try not to.”

“Blake, how about you go and find a working vending machine,” Maka offered suddenly. “I heard a rumor that one of them has a Gatorade, and Soul could really use the electrolytes.”

BlackStar’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of the _G-word_ . His little high school jock heart couldn’t take it. His kryptonite was the mother of all sports drinks—a dying breed, nowadays. Now that was _his_ crack, and it never ceased to amuse Soul.

“Don't worry, bro. I got you,” BlackStar said, and he darted out of the room.

“You did that for me?” Soul asked and, despite the fact she was playing operation with his ass, he managed a grin.

“Maybe.”

“So does this mean I'm not coming out of this with a Gatorade?”

She giggled and it was music to his ears. “No, sorry.”

“Damn,” he mock cursed. He missed their subtle, under the table like flirting. _A lot_ , apparently. The nostalgia was killer.

“Soul?”

He hummed his acknowledgement.

“You made me a promise that you'd stay out of trouble.”

 _Shit_.

He sighed. “I know, I know, I'm sorry. But I also made a promise that I’d give the Reapers hell for what they did...and what they still do.” Not to mention redeem himself for his mistake that decimated seven city blocks, figure out the identity of the stranger, and get that real first kiss. That was his to-do list in a nutshell—simple and straight to the point.

Maka frowned. “If that Reaper aimed any higher, at your _head_ , maybe, you wouldn't be here right now. This isn't a game, Soul. This is your life and you're living it too close to the edge...I don't want you to fall.”

At that, Soul deflated. This beautiful spitfire of a woman actually _cared_ about him, and he was touched. Still too chickenshit to admit to a wide spectrum of deep feelings, but he was touched. There was a lot of guilt, too. With that in mind, maybe he _wasn't_ emotionally constipated. A little stunted, yes, but with Maka something was there. He could _feel_ it.

“I won't fall. And even if I do, I'll pick myself up and walk my ass back to your hospital doors for a patch up.”

Was that poetic in some shape or form? He didn't know, but at least he put in an effort.

A long, drawn out sigh was his answer. “What am I going to do with you, Soul?" 

“Well, right now you're doing me a real solid. I've had quite a few dates in my time but this one really takes the cake.”

He didn't mention that he’s only officially had three dates, two of them never getting past date one for obvious reasons—cough, cough, _his anxiety_. And the third, well...he’d like to consider his entire DC General experience as one big date with you-know-who.

Maka laughed. “A date? Really? Wow, Soul, you sure know how to _show_ a lady a good time." 

He blushed, _shit_. “L-Like the view?”

A slow, agonizing pause. God, he wished he could see her face right now.

“Aside from the obvious gunshot wound, yes.” She patted his hip and he gasped. “You have a cute butt, Soul.”

His blush ripened across his cheeks and climbed to the tips of his ears. Their _under the table like flirting_ gig had ascended to greater heights in a heartbeat. Speaking of heartbeat, his sounded like a freight train beating against his ribcage. Fucking King King was performing an epic drum solo in his chest. Not cool. But _fuck_ , was he in deep.

He opened his mouth to reply, praying to _god_ that he wouldn’t stutter like a total loser, and a deafening cry caught in his throat instead. His _ass_. His poor, poor _ass._ It was being torn apart from the inside out because _somebody_ decided to pull out the bullet without so much as giving a fucking warning first _._

“Son of a bitch! What the hell, Maka?!”

A metallic _clink_ sounded next to him as nurse _asswrecker_ dropped the bullet into a jar. She didn’t even bat an eye at him or offer him a smile. Instead, she said, “You brought this upon yourself, Soul. Consider this karma.”

“You’re so cruel,” he whined. “What happened to the Maka that said my butt was cute?”

“She’s still here.”

“Lies.”

Maka rolled her eyes at him. “You’re such a baby.” And with that, he couldn't even have the last word because she jumped right into braiding his ass with stitches and _fuck._  

“Y-You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

He swore he could hear the devilish smile in her voice plain as day even if he couldn't technically _see_ it.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

He blinked. That tone. _No fucking way._ The response was too distinct for him not to pick up on. Was he reading into things too far? He didn’t know, but it was worth a try. His little closet nerd heart couldn’t take the anticipation.

"Supernatural?” he offered with a touch of hope in his voice. It was a leap of faith that had the potential to shatter his cool ego into a million tiny pieces. If Star knew he had a soft spot for probably the most tacky, monster hunting show ever made, he’d _never_ hear the end of it.

Maka grinned. “I guess I'm Dean, then.”

 _God,_ it was like he typed up the perfect woman into Microsoft word, clicked print, and, lo and behold, here she was in the flesh.

“Oh, _come_ on. I'm the one with all the wit and sarcasm in this relationship.”

Maka gave him a look. “You’re also the one with strange, mystical powers in said relationship.”

A pause, and then a dramatic sigh.

“I guess I'm Sam, then.”

“That’s right, _Sammy_.” 

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. He tacked on a scowl for good measure to let the scorn _really_ sink into her. She didn't even flinch. Damn her. Wait, wait, _hold up._  “Did you just second the relationship—Agh!”

That last stitch really bit him in the ass thanks to _you-know-who_.

“All done,” Maka replied smugly, and she placed the bloody tweezers on the table next to his face. It was like a mic drop. “Feel free to get dressed. Oh, and would you like a sucker on your way out?”

Soul groaned as he started to hike up his pants. “Ha ha, you're hilarious.”

“I’m bitter, actually.”

He bit his lip and kept quiet out of courtesy. No smartass remarks or jokes to try to lighten the mood because it wasn’t the time for it. Man, he should’ve known he couldn’t weasel his way out of trouble with Maka. His acts of rebellion had really hit a sour note with her, and the guilt echoed in his chest like a gong.

Meanwhile, Maka busied herself with putting her instruments away. The only noise in the room was metal clinking, cabinets opening and closing, and her shuffling feet. Otherwise, silence. 

Growing up in a family of musicians, Soul had grown accustomed to lots of noise in his life; he craved it even when his ties to his family grew thinner and thinner (until the rope finally snapped). Silence left him alone with his thoughts, and he couldn't have that.

“Maka, I—”

“Don't.”

“Just give me a chance to make this work. I'll make it work, I swear. Don't give up on me.”

She shook her head and her body slouched, like a drooping flower unable to support its weight. He’d never seen her like this, with no vibrancy shining in those green, green eyes. Now he felt like a real piece of shit.

“No, Soul. It's _you_ that shouldn't give up on _me._ ”

He blinked and gave her a look. _What?_ And before he had the chance to ask _what the hell is that supposed to mean_ , the lights started to flicker and cut to black.

“What the hell?”

“Shit. This isn't good.” She sounded panicked. “Quick! Help me find a flashlight.”

“No need.” Static encased his arms on command and gave off a soft, blue glow. “Call me the human glow stick.”

Maka scowled. “This isn't the time for jokes, Soul. We got to move.”

She grabbed his arm—his arm that was bristling with fucking _electricity_ —and pulled him out of the room. He yelped and stared at her, looking between the static and the untouched, porcelain skin of her soft, perfect little hand. Shit, he was falling down the rabbit hole again. Also his anxiety had officially bursted through the atmosphere into space. Her hand. Should be. _Burnt to a fucking crisp by now_. What the actual fuck.

“Soul, come on!” He was stiff and immovable. In shock, really. “Some people actually need the power to, y’know, _breathe!”_

“Your hand.”

She blinked. “Yes? What about it? Seriously, we have to go. 

“It's not burning.”

“Well thank you, captain obvious. Now let's _go_." 

“B-But the electricity—”

“Shut up and get a move on!”

She nearly pulled his arm out of its socket as she dragged him along the dark, eerie corridor (honestly, the hospital was scary as shit when the lights were out). He tried to jumble out some words, anything to get Maka to slow down, until she gritted out something about sealing Soul Jr. shut with his ass laces. Then he kept quiet like a good boy. Though the mystery of Maka’s perfectly un-crisped hand was still making his head spin.

“Stein! What happened?”

Maka skidded to a stop in front of Dr. Creepy while Soul promptly fell forward after her. The girl could stop on a dime. Quite impressive, actually. Though he couldn’t count on himself, considering how he just managed to trip into Dr. Creepy’s arms. Dr. Stein’s arms. _His_ arms. The arms with the hands that wanted to pry him open like a fucking clam. _Not cool._

“Ah, Soul. It's so good to see my star patient again. Especially in a time when we are in such need of your... _luminosity."_  

Soul jumped out of his arms and nearly into Maka’s, of which she promptly shrugged him off. He tried to gather whatever bravado he had left, puffing out his chest as he replied, “Ha ha. Very funny, Doc.” Soul crossed his arms and slouched, pretending like he didn't just see Maka roll her eyes from the corner of his vision. Just perfect. He felt like an idiot.

“I didn't go to med school to become a comedian, Mr. Evans.”

“Could've fooled me,” Soul pouted, and this time he pretended like he didn't see Maka’s stink eye pointed in his direction. 

“Stein, what happened to the power?” she asked, still fired up from earlier. Her dedication to her patients was admirable. Hell, he knew firsthand she was willing to take a bullet for them. This was her job, her _life_ . She lived here to help those in need. She was a healer. And, with that, she had officially flown higher up his sexy radar, _fuck._

“There are rumors circulating about the Reapers tampering with the electrical circuits in the sewers. They want to take over Death City’s electrical grid. Looks like they've just gotten started.” 

Soul watched Maka’s fists clench and her face turn red as she said, “What about our patients? What do we do?”

Stein sighed. “For now, all the power we have from our backup generator is being rerouted to our equipment rather than the lights. However, the generator isn't in the best of shape. It won't be long before it burns itself out. And when that happens...well, I'm sure you can connect the dots.”

“N-No.” Maka started trembling. “N-No, people will die. They can't die like this!”

Soul watched Stein whip out a cigarette and a lighter, of all things, and lit it up right there, right in the middle of the hospital lobby.

“I'm afraid there's nothing we can do,” he said with a nice, smoky puff. “So yes, people are going to die. It's best that you come to terms with that now, Ms. Albarn. It'll be a tough pill for you to swallow.”

It was as if someone just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of the room, blowing everyone and everything into smithereens.

Soul caught Maka before she fell to her knees in a heap of despair. Her eyes were glossed over with tears, and her teeth dug into her lip until a streak of blood dripped down her chin. Her knuckles were white, matching the complexion of her face. Ghastly. Her green, green eyes looked dull. Not a spark of life to be found.

“What the hell, Stein?!” he yelled. “Don't you think that was a little harsh?”

Stein took a long drag of his cigarette and replied, “It's the truth. The reality we live in now. Hasn't it always been harsh?”

Soul bit his lip and tipped his head down. Maka shook in his arms. _His_ arms. She seemed so small and frail, like if he squeezed her any harder she’d break like glass. This wasn't the Maka he knew. Not at all.

And then, like that, somebody upstairs flipped a switch.

Her green, green eyes hardened like stone and she broke out of his grip. He fell back like a leaf and lied still, watching. That small, perfect, un-crisped hand wiped the blood from her lip as she said, “Where are the blueprints?”

Stein quirked a brow at her. “Excuse me?”

“The blueprints of the hospital. It'll map out some of the sewer lines, correct? Maybe even the electrical grid in our sector?”

Stein shook his head. “That could be anywhere. Tucked away in a broom closet, for all I know. I'm sorry. There's no way we’d find it in time.”

Maka swore under her breath and the tears brimmed her eyes again. This was when he decided to step in.

“I know the sewers like the back of my hand. Did some work down there once with ‘Star.”

Not exactly _legal_ work, but he didn't think that mattered. “I can make my way down there and find your generator and jump start it.” He glanced down at the static, still bristling against his skin. “I'm good enough for that, at least.”

Stein dropped his cigarette and stepped on the bud. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Evans? You've already done so much. You know quite a few Reapers will be waiting for you down there. You've got a lot to lose for sticking your neck out there for us.”

Wrong, he thought. He had nothing to lose. After the blast, he didn't deserve to have anything worth not losing.

“I owe this hospital for saving my life. It's the least I can do. And the Reapers can't get away with this. I won't let them.”

“I'm coming with you.”

But then there was _her._

“No, no way in _hell_ are you going down there. It's too dangerous for—”

“What? A _nurse?_ Who do you think you're talking to, _Mr. Evans?”_

He flinched at the malice she wove into his last name.

“For your information, my Papa used to be chief of police.”

Soul perked up at that. Her father was one of the blue collared cowards? Or maybe one of the unlucky ones. He didn't have a clue. She'd never mentioned her father before. Her mother, yes— _though that was a touchy subject, too_ —but not him. Never him until now.

“He taught me how to defend myself, so believe me when I say I know my way around a gun.”

At that, Stein pitched in. “She is quite the marksman. Her father bragged about that at too many get togethers for me to argue against it.”

“That's the only thing I owe to that bastard. Nothing else,” she grumbled under her breath, and he decided quickly that the daddy topic was not meant to be brought up again any time soon.

He started shaking his head. “No, just no. I don't like it. I can't put you in the line of fire like that. That'd be stupid.”

“Soul,” she said, green eyes piercing through him like a knife. “Don't give up on me. Please, I can help. I can't just sit here and wait. I want to help, and you're going to let me. You have to." 

He frowned. He didn't like how she could throw something like that in his face to get what she wanted because she _knew_ it would work. He'd cave. He was a sucker like that for her. Just her. Fuck, he was making a big mistake for the sake of his racing heart.

“Fine,” he grunted. “But if a fight breaks out, you're running in the opposite direction. You got that?”

She nodded, and the smile she wore was clearly etched together with a lie. “Yes, Soul. I got the message. I'll stay out of trouble for you, don't worry.”

He cringed as the words slipped off the tip of her tongue. Again with the subtle, verbally thrown punches. This really, _really_ wasn't a good idea.

“Hey, don't forget about the great me!”

A flying projectile with wild blue hair flew into Soul’s line of sight, followed by the candid drop of an empty Gatorade bottle. An entrance fit for (an _idiot_ ) a God.

“I know those sewers better than you! I was the guy that gave you the grand tour, remember? There's no way I'm backing out of this one so count me the fuck in.”

Great. The last thing Soul needed was to have _two_ morons tagging along with him in enemy territory. But BlackStar rivaled Maka in the art of stubbornness. He'd made it pretty clear he was going, whether Soul liked it or not. There was no way to talk him out of it now.

“Fine, you can be our plus one.” Maka shot him a look and he shrugged it off. “Just don't do anything stupid.”

BlackStar grinned and started parading himself over to the doorway. “Pfft, like the great me would do anything stupid. I'm too big for that! Don't ya know? It's you that should be worried, Lighting R—" 

The moment BlackStar pushed open the door, just when he thought he was leading them into battle, a woman with long, black hair—and not a _single_ article of clothing—fell into him at the doorway.  

“H-Help me,” she uttered between bated breaths. Though he and BlackStar were too busy ogling her obvious... _indecency_ . Maka elbowed him in the ribs and mumbled something about _men being perverts_ , which broke him out of his reverie in a heartbeat. Now, instead of the mystery woman’s _assets_ , he focused on the dark tattoos intricately covering her entire body. They were so distinct, and if he stared long enough, he swore he saw them move. But his eyes must’ve been playing tricks on him, he thought.

“S-Shit.” The blood dripping from BlackStar’s nose was hard to ignore and borderline pathetic (but Soul still swiped a finger under his nose, just in case). “What do I do?”

“P-Please.” She stopped to cough and blood splattered against BlackStar’s shirt. “H-Help.”

Something softened in BlackStar’s eyes, like nothing Soul had ever seen before as his friend replied, “Okay, okay. I gotcha. It'll be okay. Just...focus on your breathing or something. In and out, nice and easy.”

This was the most mature Soul had ever seen BlackStar. It came naturally, which came as quite the shock. Soul didn’t think the guy would ever grow out of his teenage, jock-hood days of pranking everyone and everything with a potty mouth and a big lack of respect to boot. Oh, what a time to be alive.

Soul stepped up and clapped ‘Star on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just...throw in some punches for me down there, will ya? The Reapers need to feel the wrath of their god.”

Soul chuckled. “You got it.”

BlackStar nodded, his eyes pointed down as he lifted the woman into his arms and asked Stein if there was a room available. For a moment, Soul watched him go. Something prickled in the air between them, making him tense. His skin tingled with uncertainty, and the electric blue of his eyes crackled as he watched BlackStar’s back before he disappeared into one of the rooms. Something felt...off.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand your friendship with him.”

He sighed. “Yeah, you and me both. But he’s a good guy. A little out there, but a great friend.”

“More like _way_ out there,” Maka replied, and he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t we have a job to do?”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth Maka was already halfway out the door, shouting, “Come on! We have people depending on us with their lives!”

“Hey, wait up! You stay behind me!”

“Then pick up the pace, _Grease Lightning!_ ”

He groaned. “Not you too!”

She laughed. Despite all the tragedy surrounding them, she laughed. And it was music to his ears. 

_“I think it's time for a test, Soul. For your sake and her’s, I hope you pass.”_

 

III.

As their feet sloshed together on the slick, slimy cement in perfect harmony, Soul started to remember why he’d only taken up BlackStar’s offer to do some _off road_ parkour a handful of times. He also vaguely remembered being drunk whenever the offer was posed. Yep, his intoxicated judgement was not one to be proud of. And, frankly, neither could his current judgement. He was going to stink for _weeks._

“You're right. You _are_ a human glow stick,” the woman, who somehow knew where all his hidden loopholes dwelled, said from behind him.

“Y’know, that was only supposed to be funny when I said it.”

“Well now I said it, and _I_ think it's funny.”

He scoffed. “Sure thing, Albarn.”

“Oh, you're just mad because your sense of smell is enhanced with the conduit gene.”

There was _a lot_ more to be mad about than just _that_ , but he’d humor her.

“Ding, ding, ding. Give the girl a prize.” He grunted and scrunched up his nose. “Smells like the inside of somebody’s constipated asshole down here." 

Maka cringed. “Ew, Soul. Really?”

“Really, really.”

“That's disgusting.”

He rolled his eyes. “You're telling me.”

“Is someone there?” a small, frail voice called out, and they stopped dead in their tracks 

Soul turned off the lights and set his arm out in front of Maka, ignoring her sharp glare and gasp of offense. He pressed his finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet, and she huffed. God, didn't she understand the idea of lying low? They were in enemy territory for fucks sake.

“P-Please, it's my son. He's sick and I-I don't know what to do. We're trapped down here, a-and he can't walk.”

Soul gave Maka a look, begging her with every fiber of his being not to make a sound, but he should've known better. There was a fire in her eyes. A fire he could never put out no matter how hard he tried.

“We're here to help, ma'am.” She pushed his arm out of the way, _of course._ He gritted his teeth and lit his arms up again. “Are you alone?”

“N-No, there's a group of us living down here. Used to be m-more before but then—” the woman stopped, and Soul could hear the choked sob she was trying so desperately to swallow. “T-The Reapers came and—”

“Shh, we understand. You don't have to say anything.”

The woman tried to muffle her sobs as she led Maka and him toward a light shining where the corridor opened up into giant platform. There, they saw a wasteland of shredded tents and pitched campfires fed with old, tattered clothes. Tired eyes stared at them, mostly eyeing the electricity encasing his arms; out of courtesy, he stopped. Their stares didn’t waver. Many lied on the cold, damp, cobblestone floor, shriveled up in a ball and groaning in pain. Their ghostly skin was slick with sweat, yet they shivered. Dried blood caked their lips and stained their wet clothes and sheets. They looked like the living dead, hardly human and hardly alive.

This was what the plague did to the people of Death City.

He bowed his head, imitating a moment of silence, and looked up to see Maka on her knees next to a young boy and who he assumed to be the woman that called for them—the poor boy’s mother. 

“His name is P-Peter,” she uttered. “H-He’s only ten.”

Maka, the brave heroine dressed in scrubs—with a .45 tucked into the back of her waistband, much to his dismay—examined the boy from head to toe. She checked everything. His pupil dilation, his temperature, his pulse; she poked and prodded every inch of his body until she froze.

“P-Please, tell me my baby’s going to be okay.”

Soul took a step forward, eyeing the wary spectators around him, and looked over Maka’s shoulder. He blinked. Peter was deathly still, like he wasn’t breathing. And that was when it hit him 

“I’m sorry,” Maka said, shaking. “He’s gone.”

He watched the mother’s heart sink low into the pit of her stomach and drown as she replied, “W-What?" 

Maka bowed her head and clenched her fists against the slick cement. “Peter’s not suffering anymore.”

From what Soul could tell, Maka was not used to having bad outcomes with her patients. That’s why she was down here with him in the first place risking her life. That’s why she shredded the first tear, before the woman who just lost her son. Because she cared so damn much.

“Y-You mean, Peter is…” the woman trailed off, in shock.

“There was nothing I-I could do. I'm so sorry for your loss.”

Soul hung his head and rested his hand on Maka’s shoulder. She flinched, but accepted it all the same, slowly leaning into his touch. The small intimacy put him at ease, but at what cost?

He stared down at Peter and tried to imagine the pain he must’ve felt. In his final moments, and during these past few weeks that he’d probably been infected. The plague had torn through his body like poison, bubbling beneath his skin and attacking anything it could get its dirty hands on. Now the boy was at peace. That was all that mattered in the end.

The mother pulled Peter to her chest and weeped. All around them the people of the sewers cried for the fallen, and for the sick. Soul looked around, taken aback by how the people suddenly appeared to be surrounding them. All eyes fell on Maka and then on him in a vicious cycle he couldn’t seem to grasp. Their eyes looked sharp and unforgiving.

“Maka,” he tried, uneasy. “We should keep moving.”

Maka didn't budge and he frowned. He didn't have time for this. And neither did she, for that matter. What happened to all that pent up determination and commitment to save the people she looked after at the hospital? Did her spark flicker out? 

He gritted his teeth and started shaking her by the shoulders. “We have to get out of here, Maka. Are you listening to me?”

“Y-You're not going anywhere." 

Soul blinked and looked up, eyeing the woman holding Peter’s corpse in a vice grip. Her body shook, with fear or resolve, Soul couldn't tell. Though her eyes revealed a harsh verdict that he would've never expected.

“Maka,” he whispered. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome.”

“My son is dead,” the woman cried, looking to the others surrounding them for support. “We’re all dying, and someone needs to pay!”

Against his better judgement, static started to bristle around his arms. “We’re very sorry about your loss, but you can't pin everything on us. We didn't do this to you.” _Or did he?_ The explosion echoed in his head, followed by the screams of the dead, and suddenly he questioned his role in all of this. Was he the reason Death City was suffering from this plague? Was this his fault too?

“The Reapers will have you now." 

Soul shook the explosion out of his head and dove out of firing range with Maka tucked under his arm. He took cover behind uneven, broken concrete, swearing under his breath. Demonic cackling echoed in the sewers, and shots rang out quickly and sporadically. He watched the woman fall with Peter in her arms, among the other innocents that lived here. All of them dead in a matter of minutes. Martyrs for the Reapers to toy with and get a high out of killing. 

Soul scowled and clenched his fists. “Reaper scum,” he seethed. He got ready to unleash his wrath, but faltered when a shot, unlike the others, fired from his left. He looked over and blanched at how comfortable a cold .45 looked in her hands. Whatever trance that immobilized her before had disappeared because now he watched her as she fired relentlessly at the Reapers, hitting some and grazing others. He balked. Nurse _Badass_ , he thought. But he also didn't like seeing her fire a gun. She was a healer, _not_ a killer. 

“Maka?”

“Shut up and help me, Soul!”

Like a good boy, he listened. He started firing electricity at the Reapers who, Soul angrily acknowledged, were using the bodies of the dead to barricade themselves from Maka’s shots and his attack. What they didn’t expect, however, was Soul’s power to pass through the leftover water inside the dead and electrocute them. Like a medium of death. He cringed at how his electricity contorted the dead to do his bidding. The Reapers screamed and collapsed in a heap of death of their own, joining the innocents. He stopped and stared down at his hands. His _murderous_ hands. Very, _very_ lethal.

_“You have no idea just how lethal you are, Soul.”_

He shuddered.

“Soul?”

He didn’t budge.

“Hey, Soul?”

He refused.

“Damn it, Soul. Listen to me!”

“You didn’t listen to me before,” he mumbled.

“Well, I’m sorry, okay? I had a lot on my mind. But like you said, we have to keep moving. We can't stay here.” She paused, eyeing the dead around them. When her eyes landed on Peter, still gathered in his mother’s arms, her very soul wilted at the tragedy. “We couldn't save them... and I will never forget that,” she said, eyes cast downward. “But we still have a chance to save the people back at the hospital. That's what matters most now.”

“Maka, are you afraid of me?”

“What?”

The way she looked taken aback by his question was reassuring, even if only for a second. But that wasn’t enough to put him at ease. His power had a will of its own, overtaking the dead and silencing his enemies, and that terrified him. What was that phrase again? _With great power, comes great responsibility,_ he thought. Well, the universe had chosen the wrong guy to wield such power, seeing as how he’d never known responsibility. Call him a rebellious, spoiled, rich kid that had just been cut off from his family fortune a little over a year ago. A rebellious, spoiled, rich kid that took a sketchy handout to save his own hide from eviction, at the cost of people’s _lives._ He didn’t deserve anything. Not this power, and certainly not Maka’s blind faith in him.

“We are _not_ doing this now,” she insisted, suddenly, and this caught him off guard. “We can’t make this about you right now. We have people counting on us. _Sick, helpless_ people. So, enough with your pity party!”

“You didn’t answer,” he replied, slowly, as if to let the idea of her being afraid sink in and normalize in his head. Maybe she should be afraid. Maybe pursuing more than friendship with her was too daring, too _dangerous_ . Maybe he should start rethinking everything. _Maybe..._

"Oh my god, Soul. You're harmless. Sure, you can fry Reapers. But I find that endearing, personally." At that, he quirked a brow at her to say he was listening. She smiled softly at him with those green, green eyes crinkling at the corners, and took him by the crook of his elbow. "C'mon, could use some lights, Mr. human glow stick. I don't burn easily."

Soul couldn’t put down the guffaw riding up his throat. So it roared, instead, merrily and awkwardly off his tongue. _How did he get so lucky?_ he asked mentally. Her blind faith in him seemed, on the surface, _irrational,_ but it lit a match in his blood and propelled his confidence to heights he didn’t think possible. Her spell on him never ceased to amaze him. Even here, where his integrity was being drilled in his head, she found a way to bring him to his senses. Man, was he so _smitten_ with this firecracker of a nurse.

“You’ve got me. But paws off, just in case.” He shook her off, eliciting a small huff from her, and carefully used his powers— _for good or for evil,_ he didn’t know or couldn’t care less right now—to resume glow stick status. “There. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Are you _aroused?_ ” He waggled his eyebrows enticingly, hoping she’d catch his playful tease _before_ deciding to give his head a nasty dent.

She blushed and gawked at him. _Victory!_ “I said the way you fried Reapers was endearing! I didn’t mean—”

“Shh, don’t spoil it.”

She smacked his shoulder, _lightly_ , he noted, and stormed ahead of him. “I swear you can be such a pain in the ass.”

“An _endearing_ pain?” he tried, and the way his electricity made her eyes glow with malice in the dark was worthy of his greatest nightmares. “Forget I said anything,” he quickly tacked on as he jogged after her. She didn’t reply. But she didn’t hit him, either, so that was victory enough.

A half hour of walking around in the dark surrounded by water and its gross sludge counterpart, and he got, “I can’t see anything. Can’t you turn it up a notch?”

His insecurities dialed it up a notch instead, and Soul scowled. “I don’t think so. Almost out of juice, if that’s possible.”

He heard her sigh. “Great. Do you at least know where we are?" 

“I think so. The generator should be up ahead a little ways.” He started walking faster, trying to cut her off, and grunted when she refused his attempt at merging lanes. “Maka,” he warned. “The closer we get to the generator, the more likely we’ll run into Reapers. I want you behind me.”

“I’m fine where I am. Don’t push me, Soul.”

He groaned. She was stubborn. Too stubborn. “Didn’t you say you’d run in the opposite direction of danger for me?”

“Didn’t you promise to stay out of trouble for me?” she challenged, and he cursed under his breath. This would come back to bite him in the ass. But damn, did it have god awful timing.

“Maka, like you said, we’re not doing this now.”

Maka looked about ready to knock his lights out. All of that pent up rage and frustration bubbled beneath her porcelain skin and up to the surface, but a noise stopped her. A noise stopped him. They looked ahead at a small, blustering light. It moved like flames and was trailed by an insistent hissing and inhuman snarl.

“What the hell?” he heard her say, but his focus centered on the angry flames coming straight for them. Soul looked to either side of them. Water on both sides, trapping them on this thin, cobblestone path with fury flying in their direction. Upon further inspection, he realized a hooded figure with flames for fists was bounding toward them. A Reaper, he thought. His heart skipped a beat. A suicide bomber.

"Maka, duck down!" he yelled and, surprisingly, she listened. He held out his arm and took a few shots, missing as the Reaper sidestepped every bolt. His arm started to shake but he didn't stop, _refused_ to. He'd use up all his energy before letting this Reaper scum blow him and Maka to smithereens. But his conduit gas tank was teetering on empty. His outputs became more and more taxing, and his misses more and more frustrating. Honestly, what was with him? Was Maka _expendable_ according to his conduit gene? At that, his power spiked and his attacks started acting as drones, hot on their Reaper target's heels. The bugger got awfully close, but Soul finally nailed him.

And then everything blew up in their faces.

A flash of white, orange, and red had him reeling. It left him dangling over the water, his hands burnt and holding onto the slick concrete edge. He let out a string of curses because _suicide bomber, it was a fucking suicide bomber, of course he'd blow up!_ The water bristled menacingly when his electricity got too close. Cringing, he pulled himself over the edge and his eyes immediately landed on Maka, lying motionless and face down a few feet from him.

A hot panic ignited in his blood.

Soul scrambled to his feet, rushed to her side, and flipped her over in his arms, a breath hitching in his throat. Was she breathing? He waved a hand over her mouth and felt a slight puff of air leave her lips. She was alive. A gash marred her forehead and left a trail of blood down the side of her face, but she was _alive._ Then, her eyes fluttered open and he stared joyfully into green.

“Hey,” he rasped, and she winced, gesturing to her ears. They were blown out. Against his silent wishes for her to take it easy, she sat up abruptly and prodded her forehead. “Don’t,” he said gently. “You’ll agitate it.” Her, being the _nurse,_ still didn’t heed his words and played with her gash. He took her hand in his, ignoring her protests, and rolled his eyes, mumbling, “Dummy. I said stop. You’re making it worse.”

“You were the one that made the Reaper go boom,” she slurred. “So who you calling dummy?”

Soul chuckled. He'd almost signed their death warrants with his bout of heroism, signed _her_ death warrant, but still managed to laugh it off. How cynical of him. He helped Maka back onto her feet, her still wobbly and him not that much better, and pushed on. He considered having Maka be benched, but he couldn't leave her behind in Reaper territory or abandon the mission. People were counting on them. _Them._ As much as he wanted to ride solo, he had no choice at this point.

"Look," Maka said. He shuddered, since she'd been leaning against him and breathed her words into his ear. _Get it together, Evans._ "I see the generator." She pointed to a platform up ahead, lit up with dim lights and weak static outputs. There lied the generator in all its glory. "We made it."

“With plenty of bumps in the road,” he added.

“Still made it.”

Once they reached the platform, Soul helped her transition from leaning on him to carrying her own weight. Maka teetered for a moment, but quickly caught her balance. She beamed at him, expecting praise, of all things, and he rolled his eyes. When she pouted, he grumbled, “Yeah, sure. You get a gold star for standing. Happy?” At that, she elbowed him, making him wheeze and approach the generator with a stumble in his step. 

“Think you can turn it back on?" 

He eyed the control panel, reading in tech lingo he couldn’t grasp, and shrugged. “Worth a try, I guess.” He looked up at two opposing circuit lines facing one another, with nothing but air standing in a gap between them. He squinted his eyes. Was electricity meant to bridge the gap? “I think I got something.” He stood between the two structures and tried to calculate how high he’d need to jump.

“Soul?” Maka asked, the hospital most likely clouding her head. “Hurry, please.”

He nodded. “Sure. Just, don’t freak out.”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond when he jumped, grabbing each end of the circuit reaching into the gap, and forced every ounce of his electric being into the generator. The charge ignited within him, and he yelled his frustrations and pain into the gap, cursing, _begging_ for it to spark. He kicked out his legs and fastened his grip into a choke hold on the circuit. Eventually, he brought his hands together and the circuitry kindled into a healthy, charged beam where his body once was, because _now_ he lied on the floor. Didn’t remember falling, but he had certainly fallen.  

“Soul!”

He listened to Maka’s screams and the generator rotor whir to life as everything went dark.

 

IV.

A deathly thin figure, hiding their pale face in their collar, entered a lavish chamber with a shake in their step as no good news was on the tip of their tongue. Or so they thought.

“Yes, Crona?” their _mot-_ master said, acknowledging their most likely _unwanted_ entrance.

“L-Lady Medusa,” Crona stuttered. “S-Someone meddled with one of our generators. The p-power is back on in sector f-five.”

Lady Medusa sighed, more annoyed than angered, much to their relief. “The little conduit pest has done it again. Oh, how I loathe his pitiful heroics.”

Crona stood there, shaking, and jumped when their Lady’s snake eyes landed on them once more, searching.

“Is that all?”

They shook their head sheepishly. “There’s a r-rumor about a death c-conduit.” At that, their Lady raised a brow and prompted them to continue with a curt wave of her hand. “A boy w-with the Grim R-Reaper’s touch. He touches y-you, and you d-die instantly.”

“Interesting. I’d love to meet this boy.”

Crona stood there, unsure of what to say or do next, and startled when their Lady suddenly raised her voice. “Out of my chamber, Crona!” They shuffled away and tripped on their way out, mumbling their apologies as they shut the door.

“The boy made of lightning, and another made of death,” Medusa said aloud, mulling it over in her head. “What interesting players I have on my board. Who will cry uncle first, I wonder?”

Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the city, a boy desperately dug through the trash, searching, hoping to find anything so his skin would never see the light of day again. So he wouldn’t live up to the name the Reapers had given him.

  
_Death The Kid._


End file.
